I used to wish upon a star,
not knowing it was way too far,
to hear the things I had to say,
yet still I’d wish most every day.
I’d wish for it to stop the rain,
and let the sun shine through again.
But maybe through that thick grey cloud,
it couldn’t hear me wish out loud.
I’d wish a life of being grand,
or touring with my teenage band.
An actor on the stage I’d be,
if that bright star had noticed me.
I’d wish for courage, wish for strength,
to finally kiss the girl I’d met.
Wish for summer, wish for snow,
wish my days in school weren’t slow.
Oh, the wishes of the young.
These days I’ve no request for wealth,
no wish for trophies on my shelf.
Just let there be some time for me,
to heal and let my life be free.
From darker thoughts that still appear.
From times I rather not be here.
From moments that invade my calm.
From things that seek to cause alarm.
From battles I am loath to fight.
From restless days and sleepless nights.
From doubts I have about my worth.
If only wishes could be heard.
But who knows, maybe one day soon,
when we can go beyond the moon,
I’ll be much closer to that star,
and he might say, “Ah, there you are!”
He’d ask me what my wish would be.
What would I have him do for me.
Then I’d reply in just one breath:
Please let me live before my death.
P. A. Davies 2020
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